


See Paris And Die

by BitShifter



Category: The Avengers (1960s British TV)
Genre: Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-22
Updated: 2006-08-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitShifter/pseuds/BitShifter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steed loses his shirt. Emma is finally warmed.</p><p>The ninth in a series of adventures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Going On Holiday

**Disclaimer:** Some copyrighted characters have been borrowed 

**November 1964**

The Kings Road Dojo in Chelsea had long been the destination where the famous and the infamous went to hone their physical skills. James Bond had sparred here in the fifties; Simon Templar had been known to take a class or two in judo. Willie Garvin would stop by on occasion, before he built his private retreat behind The Treadmill. But one thing had always been a constant: women were only allowed to observe, not to participate. 

By the early sixties, things had changed. One casual visit by Modesty Blaise had lead to the owner being informed of the chauvinism of his policy, and for his own well-being, he decided to embrace progress. Still, it took a strong female to enter this hotbed of machismo and gain acceptance. 

The woman with the rich auburn hair had become a familiar sight at the dojo. Even so, the male bystanders were never prepared for the sight that greeted them when she was immersed in one of her workouts, as she was this morning. The devastating barrage of strikes and kicks that she was raining down on the practice dummy would have been sufficient to incapacitate even the strongest of men. Several spectators winced as they imagined her hapless opponent. 

Emma Peel was working out more than her muscles—she was working out her frustration with life in general. The loss of Peter eight weeks ago had hit her with a force that she could have never imagined. Fortunately, she had found someone to lean on, a man who had been an anchor in the swirling maelstrom that her life had become. Like so many times during the past week, she found her thoughts wandering to John Steed. 

He'd been moody ever since their return from Tokyo. She had managed to have dinner with him once, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere—on another favor he had to perform for the government, perhaps? She had tried to reach Rita Fox, the Ministry librarian, but had been told that she had just moved to Swansea. It was odd that someone who had worked so closely with Steed would just vanish out of the picture at a time when Emma herself wanted to spend more time with him. 

Perhaps it was Rita's leaving that had put Steed in his funk. She remembered Rita's delirious ramblings in the Amazon that sounded like an erotic encounter with Steed. 

Then it dawned on her. Rita hadn't just been Steed's research assistant. Rita had been his lover. 

_So that's his game,_ Emma thought. _Seduces all the women he works with. Well, I won't be falling into his bed anytime soon._ She smashed a rigid fist into the practice dummy's midsection, then swung her leg back and unleashed a kick that knocked it off its stand and into the wall, causing startled spectators to run for cover. 

But even as she promised herself to resist Steed, doubt crept in. She was a woman, and she had needs, now that Peter was gone. And more and more she found herself fantasizing about Steed filling those needs. 

-oOo-

The Russian swimmer came out of Steed's bedroom. She wore nothing but a nylon leotard that was whisper-thin and cut like a racing suit, with high openings on the hip that emphasized her long and perfect legs. She took one look at Steed in the living room and demurely covered herself with her hands in embarrassment. This, in spite of the fact that she knew Steed would be there. 

"I apologize, _tovarisch_. As a swimmer for the past ten years, I'm not used to wearing anything but a bathing suit. I'm afraid I spent all my time in the women's dormitory at Ozero Krugloye, and this is the only sleepwear I have." 

A grin tugged at the corners of Steed's mouth. "I approve of it most heartily, in the spirit of détente." 

Marina Irinova walked over to Steed and lightly kissed his cheek. 

"You are truly a gentleman, Steed. I feel bad inconveniencing you, such that you sleep on the sofa." 

"Well, you needn't feel bad any longer, because I'm going out of town for a few days." 

"You must have breakfast with me before you go," Marina said firmly. "I have been trying to learn to make British tea. I'm afraid I'm not very good yet." 

Steed followed her into the kitchen, appreciating the unobstructed view of her athletic backside that the leotard afforded. Marina set to work at the stove, and Steed kept out of her way, setting out some light cakes on a tray. After several minutes, Marina offered him a cup of tea. It wasn't very good, but it could have been much worse. 

"You seem to be getting the hang of it," he offered politely. "Always make sure you use cold water; it makes better bubbles. And bring it to a full boil," he advised, nibbling on a cake with his tea. 

"Today I thought I might try to make muffins," she added. "I have a—how do you call it—'parts list'?" 

"Recipe," Steed corrected. "I look forward to sampling your creations when I return." 

"How long will you be gone?" Marina asked earnestly. 

"For a week, maybe two," Steed answered. "When I get back we can go down to Whitehall and look at some pictures to see if you can identify The Ladja. By then your security clearance should have passed." 

"Do they not trust me?" 

"You could be a double agent yourself, working for the KGB," he explained. "After we show you pictures of every agent we have, you waltz back to Moscow and describe them all in detail." 

"I would never do that, _dushka_." 

"I'm not the one you have to convince. This decision has to be made at the highest level, by Sir Gerald." 

Marina simply nodded. Steed pulled up his cuff to look at his watch. 

"Well, comrade dearest, I have to dash. Flight leaves in an hour." He set the teacup down on the dining table. "But keep an eye on the place while I'm gone." 

She handed Steed his umbrella and smartly placed his bowler on his head, kissing him on the cheek once again. She took his arm in hers and walked beside him to the landing. He turned his head to look at her. 

"Don't open the door for anyone," Steed cautioned. "The Ladja's men may still be after you." 

"I will be careful, _dushenika_. If a man comes too close..." She made a sudden upward thrust with her knee, waist-high. " _Yaishnitsa!_ " 

"Scrambled eggs?" Steed translated with a wry grin. Marina blushed. 

"It is the way they taught us to fight men when I was at girls' school," she added in embarrassment. "But I'm sure I do it very well, because no man has ever been able to stand up afterwards, for many minutes." 

Steed smiled. "Just in case, I'll leave you a real weapon. But you should only use it in an emergency." He walked over to the writing desk and slid open a drawer to reveal a small revolver. 

-oOo-

The large green Bentley pulled into the spot just behind a brand new 1964 white Lotus convertible. Steed checked the address once again to make sure he had the right place. He should have known; the Elan was exactly the type of car that Mrs. Peel would drive. 

The hallway door to her flat was adorned by a giant eye with fuzzy lashes. As he pressed the nearby button with the tip of his umbrella, the lid fluttered open, revealing a fisheye lens. Steed peered into its depths with a cocky grin. There was a microphone recessed in the surface. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Peel!" he called out cheerily. 

"Come on in, Steed," came the breezy reply through a raspy electric speaker in the wall. A click sounded as the door latch was released. Steed pushed it open and stepped inside. 

Mrs. Peel was only partially dressed, wearing brief shorts and a form-fitting top that stopped well above her navel to reveal an enticing midriff. She seemed to have just come from a workout at the gym. Steed tried not to stare at her superb body as he politely removed his bowler. 

"I'm going on holiday," he announced jovially. 

"When?" she asked, running a towel through her still-damp hair. "This weekend?" 

"In forty minutes. Would you like to come?" 

"Where?" 

"Paris. The City of Lights." 

"Is this like your holiday in Brazil and Tokyo?" 

"Precisely!" Steed beamed. "You said you were interested in tagging along. I just thought I'd offer." 

Emma smirked. "What's the reason for this 'holiday'?" 

"Four—shall we say, 'government employees'—have disappeared in the Bois de Boulogne in the past month." 

"I take it they weren't file clerks?" 

"They were not," he answered seriously. "We believe The Ladja is responsible." 

"The double agent, The Crow?" 

" _Ladja_ means 'Rook', like the chesspiece, not the bird," Steed corrected. "Marina has given us a full physical description." 

Emma wrinkled her nose. "You mean Miss Irinova?" 

"Yes, of course." 

"A man with 'ice-blue eyes'." 

Steed nodded. "We have over a hundred agents with gray or blue eyes. Even I could qualify, depending on your definition of 'ice-blue'," he added with a grin. "Luckily, I know I'm not The Rook, so that knocks one name off the list." 

"Where is Miss Irinova, anyway?" 

"She's staying at my place." 

Emma felt a twinge of jealousy in spite of herself. She draped the towel around her shoulders and walked over to the window. Steed followed and stood beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. She pointed to the green monstrosity that was parked behind her new convertible. 

"Is that your car?" she asked with a laugh. 

The sound of Mrs. Peel's laughter was one of the many things about her that Steed had come to love while in Tokyo, but his pride was still wounded. 

"It's a sports car," he said defensively. 

"Thirty years ago, maybe," she teased. "Am I to feel safe as a passenger?" 

"I drive better than I fence," he offered. 

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" Emma said with a smile. "Let me go pack my things." She headed for the bedroom. 

"No luggage, just a tote," Steed called after her. "Bring your leathers." 

Emma poked her head out of the doorway and arched an eyebrow. "You're anticipating action?" 

"Of course," Steed smiled. "Aren't you?" 

-oOo-

Thirty feet below ground, a large subterranean chamber had been excavated and lined with cinderblock. In a spartan collection of offices in this secure basement, the supreme Soviet intelligence agency conducted its most secret business. 

It was here that Anatol Gogol, the head of the KGB, preferred to meet with his operatives. He had a luxuriously furnished office in the building upstairs, but all important conversations were held down here, far from the reach of prying eyes and ears. 

The Ladja stood before him, bowler hat in hand. 

"You're a sentimental idiot, Pyotr," Gogol began. "You were ordered to woo and wed Miss Emma Knight, not fall in love with her." 

The Ladja stared blankly at his superior, his ice-blue eyes revealing no emotion. Gogol continued talking. 

"The Ministry has almost certainly put your wife together with this Steed fellow to make you jealous. They want to lure you into coming back, bearing all our secrets, no doubt. It appears to be working." 

The Ladja knew better than to interrupt. Saying anything might give his superior some insight into his state of mind. 

"I warn you Pehlovich, if you were to even think about such a trade, I would have you executed immediately." 

The Ladja finally broke his silence. His voice was filled with exasperation. 

"I don't see how Emma could become so close to another man so quickly, without proof that I am dead." 

"Perhaps she has proof," Gogol replied. "Do you have any keepsake of hers that you always have in your possession, something that you would never be parted with?" 

Pehlovich fished out a gold pocket watch and flipped it open, reading the inscription. _From Emma, with love_. He looked up at Gogol. 

"She knows I would never part with this while I'm still alive." 

Gogol nodded. "Almost certainly, MI6 made a copy of the watch and left it at the crash site. Then they sent Steed there to make sure she found it, then seduce her." 

The Ladja shook his head angrily. "My Emma is too perceptive to be fooled by such a ruse. She would see right through Steed's efforts." 

Gogol lifted his chin and spoke thoughtfully. "Unless, of course, Steed has no idea about the plan. This sounds more and more like the work of Sir Gerald Tarrant, my opposite at the Ministry." 

The Ladja lapsed back into silence. 

"It is easy to piece together what happened," Gogol continued. "A week after your disappearance, the British government finds the crash site. They immediately realize that the jet is not the Foxbat at all, but a junk MiG fitted with a low-altitude ejection seat. The situation is lost, they think; you must have come over to us, telling us everything. No wonder their agents in Europe are dying in droves." 

Gogol lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke carefully, precisely. "But what to do? The cat is out of the bag, as they say. There is one hope. The pilot may still be in love with his wife. Jealousy might give them the lever they need. But she would never look at another man while her husband might still be alive." 

"So they make Emma think that I am dead," Pyotr offered. 

Gogol nodded. "They plant the watch where she is sure to see it. And they find a man who is her perfect match, one who is similar to you. If he is already involved with a woman, they un-involve him." 

The Ladja arched his eyebrows. "They may have killed Steed's lover to get him to turn to Emma?" 

"It would be most effective. Two people struggling from the loss of their lovers, thrown together. Although I'm sure Tarrant would try to lure Steed's lover away, first. He has always been squeamish about killing for the good of The State." Gogol smiled. "It is his weakness." 

The Ladja did not appear happy. "What can I do?" 

"Forget Emma Knight ever existed. Get on with your life." 

Pyotr Pehlovich narrowed his eyes. "If Steed were to die, and I could lure Emma back to me, would you allow her to come to Moscow?" 

Gogol didn't like what he was hearing. "I won't have you jeopardizing any of our operations with a vendetta against this Steed." 

"But if he should happen to die in the course of his activities against us?" 

Gogol smiled malevolently. "Then I could hardly deny reuniting a man with his wife." 

-oOo-


	2. Steam Heat

**Chapter 2**

The trees of the Bois de Boulogne formed a brilliant splash of red, brown, and gold in the fading light of early evening. Steed had rented a 1960 Renault 4CV runabout, which he had pulled over into the grass so that he and Mrs. Peel could stroll down the walkways of the giant park. A breeze rustled the dry leaves, causing Emma to pull her jacket tightly around her. 

"It's chilly out here," she commented idly. "I should have brought a heavier coat." 

Steed was looking at a collection of women loitering around the promenade. "Not everyone is dressed for the cold," he remarked wryly. 

Emma followed his gaze. Young ladies in shockingly risqué outfits were prowling the streets. There was no shortage of bare legs and midriffs, and even the parts that were covered were still partially visible through translucent material. Never before had she seen such a brazen display of feminine wares. 

Steed grinned. "This seems to be the entertainment district." 

Emma slipped her arm through his and tugged, as if to hold him back. Steed bowed his head approvingly as a nubile blonde pranced by only a few yards away, wearing little more than lingerie. 

"Even your leathers would be overdressing here," he continued. 

Emma furrowed her brow. "Why would it matter what _I_ wear?" 

Steed turned to face her and smiled enigmatically. 

She arched her eyebrows in bewilderment. "You mean—me?" 

"It's the world's oldest profession, Mrs. Peel. Quite honorable." 

"You really expect me to..." 

"Just to gather information, of course," he said smoothly. "No actual commerce." 

"I haven't a thing to wear." 

"You won't need much," Steed answered slyly. "We can go shopping for you tomorrow morning." 

Emma folded her arms and gave Steed a measured stare. "What would your plan have been if I had said 'no' to coming to Paris?" 

"Said 'no' to Paris?" Steed said with exaggerated astonishment. "I never even considered the possibility. Look, I promise I'll buy you dinner at the Eiffel Tower when this is all done. Think of this as an opportunity to sharpen your undercover skills." 

Emma pictured herself strutting down the boulevard dressed only in satin and lace. 

"It will be a very expensive meal," she vowed. 

-oOo-

They were back in the warm Renault, turning onto a side street only a block from the park. Steed smiled at her in the green glow of the dashboard. 

"You're going to need some weapons." 

Emma returned his gaze. "Me? Why should I carry weapons?" 

"Because I don't," he said. "Except for brolly and bowler, of course." He took off his hat and banged it on the dashboard with a resounding clang. "One of us needs to be armed. I understand you're an expert marksman." 

"Marks _woman_ ," Emma corrected with a smirk. "So that's the way it is." 

"The way what is?" 

"You, and the women you work with." 

"I suppose so," he said playfully. "I'm the brains, they're the brawn." 

Emma's eyes flashed with agitation. "As long as I'm around, I'll be the brains _and_ the brawn," she countered tersely. "What do you bring to the table, Mr. Steed?" 

He grinned. "Style? Charm? A boyish enthusiasm?" 

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help smiling. "Where are we going?" 

"A safe house." He guided the car to the front of a Victorian townhome and parked on the street. A cobblestone walkway led from the curb through the front yard. They walked side by side up to the front porch, where Steed used the tip of his umbrella to ring the bell. 

"Fidget, Mrs. Peel," he said cryptically. 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"Rebutton your blouse. Set your watch. Adjust your hair." 

Emma sighed in irritation as she slipped her thumb under her bra strap and snapped it with a loud pop. 

"Keep going," Steed smiled encouragingly. 

"And what exactly is this for?" 

"Shows were not under duress, that no one is holding a gun to us. If you stand perfectly still, it's a signal to the people inside to prepare a welcoming party before they open the door." He indicated the peephole. 

Emma pursed her lips thoughtfully. It made sense. If an enemy did have a gun pointed at you, any sort of motion would make them suspicious that you were trying to communicate to someone inside. Doing nothing was the perfect signal. 

"Can't you fidget enough for the two of us?" she asked. 

"You need practice. I may not always be with you." 

Emma suppressed a snort. She had no intention of doing _anything_ like this without Steed. She became solemn for a moment at the ramifications of that thought. 

There was a loud click as the bolt was thrown from inside. The door opened to reveal the scowling face of the Armourer. He shot a withering look at Emma before turning to Steed. 

"Brunette this time?" he asked crustily. "What are you trying to do, collect one of each?" 

Emma quickly deduced that the woman before Rita must have been a blonde. 

Steed smiled broadly. "This is Mrs. Peel. She needs a weapon." 

The Armourer frowned. "I don't suppose you have any familiarity with semi-automatic firearms, Mrs. Peel?" 

"To the contrary," she answered smoothly. "I'm familiar with quite a few modern makes and models." 

"Really," the Armourer responded with a trace of skepticism. He moved to one side to admit the two visitors into a shallow parlor. The walls were lined with armoires that were actually being used for their historical purpose of housing weapons. The Armourer led the way to an antique desk and handed Emma a wooden box. 

"This one, perhaps?" 

She flipped open the lid and examined the black steel contents. 

"It's a Beretta 950 Jetfire mini-pistol, twenty-five caliber," she said matter-of-factly. "Eight rounds, nine when chambered. Weight, one-quarter of a kilo. Less than five inches in length." 

The Armourer smiled. "Perfect for a lady's handbag." 

"I don't usually carry a purse," Emma mused. "And the twenty-five round is pretty anemic." 

"It's sufficient to deter," Steed countered. "We wouldn't want you accidentally killing anyone." 

"If I killed anyone," she said evenly, "it wouldn't be an accident." 

The Armourer's eyes lit up in admiration at Mrs. Peel's expression of her lethality. "The beauty of the Beretta is that it can be hidden almost anywhere," he added. 

Emma hefted the gun, felt its balance, tested the slide action. 

"Best not to chamber a round prematurely," the Armourer advised. "It doesn't have a safety. I'm sorry that it isn't the dress model with the chromed finish." 

"Black matte is better," she said coolly. "It doesn't reflect light on the draw." 

"To be sure, to be sure." The Armourer had a wide grin on his face. His opinion of Mrs. Peel was growing by the second. "Where on earth did you find her, Steed?" 

"The Amazon. She's one of those savage women warriors you read about." 

Emma turned the gun over in her hand. "What kind of holsters do you have?" 

"Thigh, ankle, or a shoulder rig," the Armourer answered. "Of course, you need a jacket or coat for the shoulder holster. But that shouldn't be a problem, this time of year." He went over to a cabinet and produced several harnesses made of black leather, showing each to her in turn. 

Emma test-fit a few of them at the various locations on her body. "There's advantages and disadvantages to each of them," she said. "I can't really decide. Perhaps you could recommend one." 

"Please; take all three," the old man said graciously. "That way, you can choose whichever one is best for the action at hand." Steed smiled knowingly. The Armourer was completely smitten. 

"Speaking of action," the Armourer added. "What are you two going to be doing?" 

"We're going undercover," Steed answered. 

"Ah, yes; I could see from your clever disguise. Bowler and umbrella again. Might as well paint a target on your back." 

-oOo-

The area outside the Victorian townhome was illuminated by a single streetlamp. A dark-haired man with a moustache turned to Vasily. 

"Who's the target?" 

"The man with the bowler and the umbrella," Vasily answered as they lay in wait outside the safe house. "Didn't you seem him in Tokyo?" 

"No. He must have been standing outside the door when Irinova defected." He narrowed his eyes. "But the brown-haired woman—her, we know very well. The last time I saw her, she was playing fireman. We have a score to settle. One involving water." 

"Very well, then; we shoot Steed, and drown the woman in the Seine." 

"We can throw her off Le Pont de Suresnes, if we hurry. How long will they be in there?" 

There was a scuffling sound as the front door opened. 

"Here they come now," Vasily grinned. 

"Are they armed?" the man asked. 

"Haven't you heard? Steed never carries a gun." 

-oOo-

Steed had just offered Emma a hand to get down the steps when a sliver of mortar flew in front of his eyes, followed by a whizzing hum like a rocketing hornet. He immediately recognized the sound and instinctively ducked, tugging on Mrs. Peel's arm to seek whatever scant cover was offered by the front yard. But she would have none of it; she whipped the Beretta out of its wooden box, chambered the first round, and squeezed off a spray of four shots into the bushes across the street in a single, continuous motion. There was a panicked scramble as two men took off running. 

"Some 'safe' house," Emma said sardonically. 

Steed tenderly touched her arm. "Are you okay?" 

"These holidays of yours seem dangerous." She delicately covered his hand with her own. "Friends of yours?" 

"They must have followed us from the airport," he reasoned. "Did you get a look at them?" 

She shook her head. "They scampered like rabbits." 

"Small wonder, once they saw your poaching skills. At least you've had a chance to fire the Beretta." 

"Just a bother. Now I'll have to clean it. Shouldn't we try contacting the police?" 

Steed had a wry expression. "Let's just say I've had some 'awkward relations' with the Sûreté, and would like to avoid any entanglements with French law enforcement." 

"Why is it that I think a woman is involved?" 

" _Cherchez la femme_ ," he grinned. 

-oOo-

Emma was curled up in the passenger seat of the Renault, inspecting the Beretta. Its performance had met with her approval. She carefully reloaded it with the spare ammunition that the Armourer had pressed into her jacket pocket as they were leaving. Steed was scanning the street outside, checking the various hotels that bordered the park. 

"We'll need a place to stay, somewhere near the Bois." He pulled past an ancient-looking structure that had delicate Gothic tracery and spandrels. "How about this one?" he suggested. 

"It looks lovely," Emma said wistfully. 

"Probably three hundred years old," Steed commented. "But it's within walking distance of the promenade, the spot where the agents were found." 

"So that's why you think the ladies might know something." 

"I'm sure of it." Steed parked in one of the visitor spots out front. He opened the trunk and hoisted Mrs. Peel's tote over his shoulder. She walked up next to him and carefully tucked the Beretta away into one of its compartments. 

The front desk was attended by a stern-looking Frenchman with a pencil-thin moustache. He immediately recognized the newcomers as foreigners—even worse, tourists—and he could barely hide his distaste as they approached. 

"We'd like some lodging, please," Steed began cheerfully. 

"I'm afraid we have only one room left." 

"We'll take it," Emma said casually. 

"Are you together?" the manager asked, an expression of disapproval starting to pass over his face. 

"Yes," Emma said forcefully. "Is there a problem with that?" 

"This is a reputable establishment," he answered snootily. "I'm afraid only married couples may stay here." 

"We are married," Emma said smoothly, showing her wedding ring. She hoped he didn't ask to see Steed's. "We're Mr. and Mrs... Knight." 

"Why do you have so little luggage?" 

Emma looked flustered. Steed smiled. 

"Why, we're eloping," he babbled giddily. "Couldn't wait to get across the Channel to the City of Lights. 'See Paris and die', as they always say." He pulled Emma close to him and she smiled as she rested her head on his shoulder, for realism's sake. 

" _Oui, monsieur_. The bed is not that large, but may be sufficient for what little sleep you have time for." 

Emma wrinkled her mouth and Steed winked. He slipped a large tip across the counter as the manager handed him the key. 

"I'll make sure the steam is extra warm for your room, m'sieu," he whispered to Steed as he walked past. "Perfect for the honeymoon night." 

There was no elevator, so they had to trudge up two flights of stairs. The room was well-decorated and cozy. The bed was indeed small, as the manager had warned. 

"I'll sleep on the floor," Steed announced. 

"Don't be ridiculous," Emma answered. "It's cold enough outside we should have no problem sleeping in our clothes. We can share the bed." She looked doubtfully at the four-and-a-half foot wide brass-framed mattress. 

Steed washed up as Emma set about cleaning the Beretta. He plopped down onto one side of the bed, and was asleep within minutes. Emma smiled as she looked at his boyish face, the way a small curl of hair crept down onto his forehead as he dozed. She finished with the gun and packed it away into its wooden box. Then, still dressed in her blouse and wool skirt, she lay down on the bed beside him, and was asleep within minutes herself. 

-oOo-

Emma awoke at two in the morning. She was wringing wet; at first she thought the room must be on fire. Then she realized that the heat was coming from the large radiator beneath the room's only window. 

She rolled out of bed and staggered over to the window, hoping to let some chilly night air in. But it seemed to be locked at the sash, or perhaps had been rendered incapable of opening during the many centuries. She dabbed some sweat off her forehead with a sleeve as she turned back towards the bed. It was hotter than a Riviera summer. 

Emma arched her eyebrows as she saw Steed sleeping half-naked. He had done the smart thing; he must have woken up sometime earlier and stripped down to his boxers. She looked at his bare chest with the small diamond of dark hair in its center. Sensing that he slept soundly, she walked over to the writing desk and turned away from the bed. 

She unbuttoned her blouse and slipped off her bra to feel the air wash across her damp torso. Then she saw Steed's undershirt neatly folded on the chair next to the desk. She picked it up and delicately touched it to her cheek. It smelled like him. She slipped it on; it fit loosely, but it was soft and comfortable; certainly better than trying to sleep in her long-sleeved blouse. 

Emma turned to make sure that Steed was still dozing. She removed her skirt so that she was wearing only her slip and crawled back into bed. 

-oOo-

When she awoke the next morning, Emma found that she had snuggled up next to Steed. The sheets had been kicked down to a spot near their feet. Her head was resting on Steed's chest, her arm pulled tightly around him as if he were a life preserver and she was adrift. Their legs were intertwined. 

Steed stirred. He was waking up. Emma quickly untangled her arms and legs from him and retreated to her side of the bed. 

"Good morning, Steed," she said sweetly. "What happened to 'sleeping with your clothes on'?" 

He rose groggily and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. 

"I apologize, Mrs. Peel; but it was so hot in here—is that my shirt?" 

Emma reddened and demurely pulled the sheet up for extra coverage. "As you say," she replied wryly, "it was quite hot." 

Steed smiled. "I'll get on the phone and see about ordering some breakfast. Can't afford to skip meals—you never know when your next one will be." 

Emma scampered towards the bathroom. "I get the shower first." 

"Well, there'll be no lack of hot water, if it's the same boiler responsible for the heat," Steed commented. He picked up the phone on the nightstand and called the front desk. 

Emma basked in the warmth of the shower, washing off all traces of last night's gun battle and sauna-like sweating. She heard the door open in bedroom; the breakfast must have arrived. As she stepped out of the shower, she saw Steed's undershirt draped on the doorknob. She playfully spritzed it with a dash of her fragrance. _Now he can be reminded of_ me _all day_ , she thought. 

A muted crash sounded from the bedroom. Clumsy busboy, she thought. Then, suddenly, her senses were on alert; there were no voices in the other room. If the server had actually dropped a dish, Steed would be effusively forgiving him by now. She slipped her panties back on, along with Steed's undershirt, and silently eased open the bathroom door. 

A man was strangling Steed with the phone cord. Emma rushed forward and struck a stinging blow to the attacker's neck with the flat of her hand. He released Steed and turned to face her. She faked a low kick at his groin in order to lure his guard away from his upper body, then kicked high, her bare foot landing squarely in the center of his chest. The man's lungs emptied with a loud 'whoof' sound. He spun around dizzily for a second before crashing to the floor. Steed smiled at her. 

"Thank you, Mrs. Peel. You're quite good at that." 

She placed her palms together and sketched a slight bow. "King's Road Dojo," she said cockily. "We never fail." 

"Well, let's see who our early morning visitor is. Certainly not a bellhop." 

Emma squatted next to Steed as he searched the man's pockets, then became aware that she was wearing only panties and Steed's undershirt. 

"I should get dressed," she announced. Steed paid no attention; he was looking at something in the man's wallet. 

"Things are looking up," he said with a smile. "We haven't even been here twenty-four hours, and they've already tried to kill us twice." 

She called out an answer to him from the bathroom. "Hardly cause for a celebration, unless you moonlight as an undertaker." 

"If they're looking for us, it means we don't have to waste our time looking for them," he said cheerfully. 

-oOo-

Vasily was in a room underground, deep beneath the streets of Paris. The mechanical clank of a printing press sounded rhythmically through the far wall. Seated at a desk in front of him was a man with dark hair and ice-blue eyes. 

"Twice we have been close to killing Steed," Vasily said angrily. "Both times, a woman saved his life. I have instructed my men to kill her as well." 

A look of alarm crossed The Ladja's face. "The woman with Steed must not be harmed!" he cried. "Get to your bumbling oafs and make sure they don't hurt her!" 

"What do you care? Just one more dead British agent." 

"She's no agent." 

"My men tell a different story. They claim she was the woman who worked with Steed to stop the assassination in Tokyo. Don't you remember? She was caring for him after the marathon in the Olympic Stadium." 

"I tell you, she's no agent," The Ladja repeated severely. "She's... my wife. She's just a little confused right now." 

"Confused?" Vasily asked, showing signs of perplexity himself. "Your wife?" 

"Yes. But once Steed is dead, I will make everything clear to her. Then we can be together again." He smiled and walked over to the window. 

"Just as I always planned," he added. 

-oOo-


	3. An Irresistible Trap

**Chapter 3**

Steed and Emma were shopping in a small boutique called _Outre Façon_ that catered to women with exhibitionist tendencies. Specifically, it offered clothing for those whose business it was to wear as little as possible. A young salesgirl hovered around them as they browsed. She was covered only with a translucent poncho that barely reached the top of her thigh. Underneath she wore lacy undergarments—an indulgence to the commercial code, no doubt; one got the impression she would have liked to wear nothing at all beneath the filmy fabric. She occasionally approached to speak a few words in French to Steed, rubbing her body against him as she did so. He merely smiled in return, politely reeling off the French equivalent of "just looking." 

Steed ambled along the opposite side of a clothes rack from Mrs. Peel. He could smell her scent on his undershirt. She seemed to be having trouble making up her mind about the diminutive undergarments in front of her. 

"These look nice," Steed offered. He used the tip of his umbrella to indicate some pink satin panties. "You can wear garters with them." 

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable shopping for lingerie with you, Steed," Emma said candidly. "And what do you find so thrilling about garters?" 

He leaned in to her ear, so close he could have nibbled at her lobes. 

"They're perfect for hiding weapons," he whispered. 

"Ah, now I know where your mind's at," she teased. Emma held up an item for his perusal. It was a black leather miniskirt. She pressed it to her waist and checked where it fell on her thigh. 

"That's no way to hide your weapons," Steed said. 

"If you want me to be a woman of convenience, I have to look the part." 

"There's no need to be _that_ convenient." He held up a short, burgundy velvet skirt with a side slit that extended to the waist. It would allow her quick access to the Beretta on her thigh. 

"This should meet all your needs. Would you care to try it on?" 

Emma looked around, and the salesgirl suddenly materialized to wave her towards a nearby curtained booth. Unfortunately, the curtain was virtually transparent; Steed politely turned away as Emma stepped behind it to remove her wool skirt and slip. 

She strolled out and did a pirouette in front of Steed, inviting his critique. He smiled at the brief flash of the form-fitting white panties that she had been wearing that morning when she subdued his attacker. Steed stepped in close and knelt down by her leg. Emma froze and became quite still as his warm hand slipped up her thigh. 

Steed reached into his jacket pocket with his other hand and produced a small piece of black leather: her garter holster. It took great self-control for Emma to suppress a quiver of delight as his warm hands passed between her legs, just inches below the heart of her womanhood, as he fastened the leather in place. 

Steed folded the hem of the velvet skirt over to display the holster on her thigh. "Ah, just like a friend of mine used to wear," he commented, admiring his handiwork. 

"Rita, or the blonde?" Emma asked cattily. 

" _One_ of the blondes," Steed answered wryly. He pulled his hands away, and Emma had to resist the urge to grab his wrists and force them back down below. 

She felt a sense of wantonness following the intimate contact, and it showed as she started to look for something to cover her upper body. She was avoiding all of the conservative choices and seeking out the sexiest thing she could find. Emma lifted a flimsy garment on a hanger in front of her face and peered at Steed through the fabric. His eyes widened in astonishment at the sheer pink camisole. 

"Don't you find that a bit lacking in the opacity department?" he asked. "You'll have every man in a two-mile radius stopping to talk to you." 

A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth as she suggestively raised an eyebrow. 

"Isn't that the point?" 

-oOo-

It was early afternoon back at the hotel, and Emma was carefully setting out her new clothes on the back of a chair in preparation for her adventure later that evening. Steed was at the writing desk, examining something from his pocket. Emma walked over and rested her chin on his shoulder. 

"What do you have there?" 

"I removed these from our impetuous assassin this morning, after you disabled him." 

Emma picked up one of the items from the desk and examined it. 

" _Vin De Fin_. 'The wine to end all wines'," she read from the business card. 

Steed jingled a key on a tag in front of her. "And this, a key designating the Jardin d'Acclimation—the zoo located on the north end of the Bois," he explained. 

"Two clues? Luring us to different places?" Emma smirked. "Haven't you ever heard of 'divide and conquer'? This is obviously a trap." 

"Of course it's a trap," Steed grinned. "That's what makes it so irresistible." 

"So you're proposing we just walk right in to danger?" 

"There's no danger, as long as we keep our wits about us." 

"'Keep our wits about us'? That's your grand advice?" 

"I'll take the Vin De Fin. You take the Jardin d'Acclimation. Since it's in the Bois, it'll help you get the lay of the land for tonight. We wouldn't want you to get lost in the woods." 

"How come you get the winery?" 

"Everyone knows of my reputation as a world-class oenologist," Steed answered matter-of-factly. "The winery trap is obviously meant for me. Ergo, the zoo trap is meant for you." 

Emma's eyes softened as she lightly touched a hand to his chest. "Be careful, Steed." She delicately took the keys from his hand. "I mean, 'keep your wits about you'." 

-oOo-

Forty-five minutes later, Steed pulled the runabout into the gravel lot of an abandoned winery on the outskirts of Paris. A dilapidated sign hanging on the fence broke loose when he parked nearby, finally succumbing to the rust of ages. 

"It looks as if the _vin_ is completely _fin_ ," Steed chuckled to himself. He quietly closed the car door and strolled toward a side entrance of the main building. There were no other cars in the lot. He tried the knob on the side door and found it unlocked. 

His footsteps echoed on concrete as he stepped inside. The four-story high room was dominated by three large wooden vats, each some fifteen feet in height. A rather unsturdy-looking catwalk gave access to the top of the vats. Steed listened carefully, and heard some miscellaneous popping and scratching noises. Probably just a gang of wayward rats, he thought. 

The afternoon sunlight slanted in through some broken windows set in the ceiling. A flashing glimmer caught Steed's eye near the center vat. Something was dangling near the edge. 

He mounted the rickety catwalk and crept toward the center of the room. As he inched closer, he immediately recognized the object. It was Peter Peel's gold pocket watch, the one that Mrs. Peel had picked up in the Amazon. From only a few feet away he could read the inscription: _From Emma, with love_. They must have captured Mrs. Peel at the zoo. But how could they have gotten the watch out here so quickly? Had they brought her with them? Was she in some sort of danger? Could she be in the vat? 

Steed couldn't resist stepping closer to peer over into the container. His concentration was so focused that he didn't notice the shadowy figure moving across the floor beneath him. 

As Steed reached the edge, the mystery man threw a lever and the catwalk tilted to hurtle Steed feet first down into the dim interior of the teakwood cylinder. He landed on the damp floor of the vat; Mrs. Peel was nowhere in sight. The walls seemed to be slippery with the ancient residue of grapes; but in case he had any ideas about scaling them, a man shortly appeared on the catwalk above him holding a gun. 

He wore a mask covered with black and white checks; not diagonal, like a harlequin; but side-to-side, like a racing flag—or a chessboard. 

"Welcome, _droog_ Steed," Pyotr Pehlovich called down into the makeshift prison. "I have followed your exploits with great interest these past few months." 

"You have me at a disadvantage," Steed said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

"That, _tovarisch_ , is an understatement. I have you at my mercy." 

"I like the mask," Steed said wryly. "Very fetching. And your name is...?" 

"My name, or what I look like, will not matter to you a few minutes from now." The Ladja threw a lever next to the vat and there was a thundering boom that echoed through the large room. Steed looked immediately overhead to see a massive steel platen start to lower towards him. 

"Your guess is correct, Mr. Steed," The Ladja announced smugly. "You are in a hydraulic wine press." 

In a fit of gallows humor, Steed popped open his umbrella and looked nervously at the descending press. 

Pehlovich laughed. "Your umbrella looks quite formidable, Mr. Steed. But the press is capable of hundreds of kilos per square centimetre." 

"You must be the man they call _The Ladja_ ," Steed said evenly. 

Pehlovich disregarded Steed's assertion. "The Ministry seems to have spent a lot of time trying to look into the activities here in Paris," he said. "Eventually, they will run out of agents. You were number five." 

Only a few more inches and seconds remained until the heavy steel ram would reach the top of the vat. 

"You expect me to talk?" Steed called out into the shrinking gap. 

"No, Mr. Steed," The Ladja laughed easily. "I expect you to become wine! A rich red merlot, I think." 

The incoming light was blocked off as the top of the press passed the lip of the vat and started lowering into the rapidly diminishing space. 

Steed looked at the sturdy teak walls around him. He was trapped. 

-oOo-

Emma was strolling down the street in the Bois de Boulogne. Her leathers were the perfect outfit for the cool day; they fit her like a second skin. She sometimes liked to imagine herself as a deadly, pouncing panther when wearing them, much like the one that almost caught her in the Amazon, before Steed intervened. Even though the material wasn't impervious to bullets or blades, she felt invincible when she had it on. Perhaps that explained her leaving the Beretta back in the hotel room, when she could have easily tucked it into her boot. 

Tourists with cameras were clustered around every cage of the small menagerie in the Jardin d'Acclimation. Emma moved freely among them, pausing to read a plaque near a decorative fountain. In her mind, she could hear Rita's matter-of-fact voice paraphrasing the words to her, saying, "You know, at the end of the nineteenth century, the _Jardin Zoologique_ was actually renamed to _l'Acclimation Anthropologique_ , and living primitive peoples were exhibited here—Nubians, Bushmen, Zulus—in an horrific human zoo." 

Emma looked around her. Now, only a handful of friendly, well-fed animals prowled the cages. She reached into one of the zippered pockets in her outfit and pulled out the key, checking its number against the surrounding addresses. 

She followed a directional sign towards a small brick outbuilding containing steel bars along its sides. A roll of canvas had been unfurled down across the front of the bars on one side, announcing it was FERMÉ POUR RÉPARATIONS. She checked the number on the building. This was the place. 

The key admitted her through the outer door into a central corridor, where bars marked off the inside walls of the cages. This appeared to be a service area for feeding and transferring animals in and out. While the bars facing the outside world were solid and set in cement, the bars in the corridor were punctuated by cage doors. All of them were swung open. 

She inched forward carefully, watching for a stalking tiger or deadly python to emerge through one of the doorways. But all of the cages appeared empty, save the last one on the end. 

In the center of a cage was a bowler, just like the type that Peter—and Steed—wore. Next to it was a body covered by a sheet. It couldn't be Steed, she thought. He left less than an hour ago. But they could have ambushed him just minutes after he left. He could be injured, or drugged. 

The other wall of the cage was missing entirely, covered only by the canvas tarp that flapped in the breeze. One could see why it had been closed for repairs. 

Emboldened by the obvious escape route, Emma stepped cautiously into the cage and approached the bowler next to the motionless figure. Her heart beat rapidly at the thought that Steed could be dead. What would she do without him? She didn't think she could bear to lose him, not so closely on the heels of having lost Peter. 

She knelt down and whipped the sheet off the figure. It was a dummy. 

The cage door slammed behind her. Emma barely caught a glimpse of the dark-haired man with the moustache who had closed it before she ran for the other wall of the cage. As she swept aside the canvas tarp, she was surprised to see a small electric fan—and a brick wall only two feet beyond. The open wall had been an illusion. 

She was trapped. 

-oOo-


	4. A Lesson Learned

**Chapter 4**

Emma backed up against the brick wall of the cage like a cornered animal. But secretly, she wanted the maximum maneuvering room should her captor be foolish enough to come inside to confront her. A wry grin crept across her face as the man with the black moustache entered the cage and locked the door behind him, boldly displaying the key to her. 

"I have orders not to kill you," he said with a sinister smile. "But that doesn't mean I can't teach you a lesson." 

He charged at her, and Emma stood perfectly still, waiting until he was within range to unleash two wicked karate chops. The man effortlessly shrugged them aside, and bulled directly into her body, slamming her against the brick wall. She felt the breath get knocked out of her as the man stepped back to gloat in his success. 

While still pretending to be out of breath, Emma sprang at him, punching with a closed fist at the soft spot near his stomach. But he had steeled his abdominal muscles, and the area she made contact with was unyielding and undisturbed. She danced back out of range just in time to duck a hammerfist blow that would have surely sent her into unconsciousness. _Why did I leave the Beretta back in the hotel room?_ she thought. She hurled the electric fan at his head; he easily batted it away. 

Trying to maintain her distance from his powerful punches, Emma did a dazzling spin kick, swinging her foot around in a high arc to land solidly on the side of his head. Perhaps his stunned state explained why he foolishly tried to match her move for move, unleashing a high kick aimed directly at her face. 

With lightning reflexes, Emma dodged to the side and grabbed his ankle, holding it suspended near her left shoulder. The man then realized that he had stupidly left himself vulnerable, with his left foot on the ground and his right foot five feet in the air, his legs spread wide and his groin defenseless. 

Emma saw the opening, and before he could thrust his hands below his waist to cover himself, she fired a devastating snap kick directly into the junction between his legs. He let out a whimpering groan and his body went limp for a second, and Emma knew that her counter-attack had temporarily taken all the fight out of him. She released his ankle and he slid helplessly to the floor, dropping the key as he pressed his hands between his thighs. Just in case he was faking, Emma pulled the key away with her toe to a safe distance before snatching it up. 

As she headed for the door of the cage, she looked down at the man's face. Suddenly, the black hair and moustache were familiar. It was the KGB man from Tokyo, the one who had been trying to stop Marina's defection. Emma sprinted out of the cage, hearing the door lock behind her as she kicked it close. 

The man was up and staggering towards the cage door, one hand still cupping his hopelessly pain-racked _yaitsa_. He thrust his other hand through the bars just inches away from Emma's face. She danced playfully out of his reach to the opposite brick wall. Her eyes lit up at what she encountered there. 

A large canvas hose was coiled around a water valve, probably used for washing down larger animals. She spun the handle and was delighted to see it balloon with the pressure. 

"Remember me?" she smiled innocently. She aimed the nozzle at him. 

The force of the water caused him to him retreat to the opposite bars as she let the stream play over his body. Emma couldn't help but laugh girlishly at the delicious irony of it all. 

A few moments later, Emma spun the handle back to shut off the water. The spluttering KGB man roared angrily and ran back to rattle the bars of the cage door. She dangled the key in front of him, just inches out of his grasp. 

"Lesson learned," she teased. 

-oOo-

Steed carefully examined the inside wall of the vat. There was a wooden access door that must have been securely bolted from the outside. He quickly removed his bowler and placed his fist just inside the metal crown. After a few fierce punches aimed directly at the center of the door, he heard the wood creak and give. After a few more punches, he realized that it would take fifteen minutes or more to break through the door; the speed of the descending press indicated he had less than three. 

Several small holes were located on the wall of the teak vat near the floor where liquid could drain out. Steed got down on his hands and knees and peered through one. Off to one side, he could see the control box for the press. He moved over a few holes until he found one directly in line with the hydraulic hose, only a foot away. 

Steed gave his umbrella handle a twist, and pulled free a two-foot long sword blade. It was so thin that it might be too flexible. He poked the blade through the hole and started sawing at the hydraulic line. The hose kept dancing away from the flexing blade; but within a minute, the blade started to bite in, and he achieved a small trickle of pink fluid. The sight cheered him on, and he doubled his efforts. 

It soon became clear that the press was no longer descending any closer, but Steed kept sawing away at the hose until it was completely severed. He still had a foot of headroom on his hands and knees when the machine became completely inoperable. Now safely out of danger, he set back to work on the access door with the steel crown of his bowler. His original estimate wasn't far off; he broke through in twelve minutes. 

-oOo-

Emma returned to the hotel, but Steed was nowhere to be found. Probably still spitting into buckets down at the winery, she thought. Her mouth wrinkled into a wry grin as she looked at the risqué outfit hanging on the back of the chair. She quickly slipped out of her leathers and donned the satin panties, velvet skirt, and see-through top. 

She attached her garter holster to her thigh, fondly wishing Steed had been there to adjust it, just like he had that morning. Then she loaded up the Beretta and slipped it smoothly into its nesting place. After one last look in the mirror, she tiptoed down the two flights of stairs and stealthily slipped past the manager. She could only imagine what his reaction would be if he saw her dressed like this. Once in the street, she quickly strolled over to the promenade in the Bois, where she no longer looked out of place at all. 

A young pixie-like girl was strutting down the avenue dressed in a lace halter and a pink satin miniskirt. Her jet-black hair was cut in a short bob, and she wore high-heeled leather boots that reached up past her knees. She stopped to stare at Emma's torso through the translucent fabric of the camisole. 

"What is your name?" she asked. 

"Emma." 

"Mine is Mimi." She nodded approvingly. "You should do well here, Emma. You have perfect breasts." 

"Er—thank you," Emma answered awkwardly, resisting the urge to cover her chest in embarrassment. "Is there someone in charge here?" 

Mimi arched her eyebrow. "Do you mean, is there a _souteneur_ that owns all the girls here? Yes." 

"I'd like to meet him," Emma declared. 

"No, you wouldn't. But you will have to meet him anyway, if you want to work in the Bois." 

"I'm new in town," Emma said, adjusting the slit in her skirt to cover the Beretta more surely. 

Mimi laughed. "I figured that out myself. But our _souteneur_ is new in town, as well. He just arrived here two weeks ago. Now, he is taking over everything." 

"What does he look like?" 

"Very dark hair. And his eyes—they are whitish-blue. Like ice." 

Emma lapsed into melancholy as she briefly thought of Peter. "Is he handsome?" 

"Many women would think so. But I can see that he is cruel. His name is Pierre LaTour." 

Their conversation was briefly interrupted as a young man walked by, looking to be barely eighteen years of age. He stopped to ogle Emma's camisole. While Mimi wasn't looking, Emma bared her teeth and narrowed her eyes menacingly at the prospective customer. He hurried along. Emma turned back to Mimi. She had seen it after all. 

"You have what we call a 'beaucoup de tempérament', Emma." 

"Does LaTour come around here often?" 

"No, mam'selle. He has, how do you say— _lackeys_ —to do such things." 

"Then how can I meet this _souteneur?_ " 

"He can usually be found at a nightclub that he has taken charge of. It is called _La Chatte Ronronne_. Just a few blocks west of the Bois." 

"Are women allowed into this nightclub?" Emma innocently asked. 

" _Mais oui!_ Most of us girls work a shift several nights a week at _La Chatte_. Pierre tells us it is a good way to meet high-class customers." Mimi conspiratorially touched her hand to Emma's arm and moved closer. "If you want a job there, just stop by and ask, wearing what you have on now. They will not refuse your lovely pink _fleurs_." 

Emma self-consciously covered her chest at the assertion. Mimi merely laughed and continued on her way. 

Two hours later, which seemed much longer due to her discomfiture, Emma had learned no more. All of the other ladies steered well clear of her, some casting jealous glances as they walked by. Emma was forced to frighten off all of her prospective male customers; their eagerness was such that none of them looked as if they could carry on a conversation with her without requiring physical restraint. 

Emma took comfort in the warm steel of the Beretta tucked against her thigh as she headed back to the hotel. She was confident of her hand-to-hand abilities, but if an opponent was armed, or there were several of them, the Jetfire would help even the odds. 

She had stopped by the nightclub on her way back. There, a matronly woman with a stern expression had explained all of the rules that the waitresses were expected to follow, and handed her a bag containing the ridiculous costume that they were all expected to wear. 

When she crept back into the hotel room, Beretta at the ready, the overactive radiator was generating its usual sauna. The room was absolutely sweltering. Steed was sprawled on the bed asleep, shirtless. _Lazy bones_ , she thought. _I wonder if his trap was as difficult as mine._ She briefly considered waking him just for spite, but she felt shy about appearing before him in the sheer nylon camisole with her bare breasts so prominently on display. 

She noticed his undershirt was neatly folded again in its usual position over the back of the chair. Meant for her, perhaps? Emma slipped off the camisole and slipped on the undershirt, once again letting its comforting smell wash over her. The shirt bore a delicate odor of grapes. She smirked. Steed had probably spent all day sipping rare vintages and conversing with bespectacled winemasters. 

Emma pulled down her burgundy velvet skirt and kicked it away with a bare foot. She was so tired when she crawled into bed next to Steed, she forgot that she wasn't wearing any slip, only the pink satin panties that he had picked out for her earlier that day. 

-oOo-

Emma awoke, shivering. The steam heat seemed to have given out, and it was now ice-cold in the room. Only one part of her body felt warm. She looked downward to discover the reason. 

Steed now spooned her in bed, fast asleep. His arm rested on her waist, and his right hand was plunged shamelessly between her thighs. The palm of his hand was incredibly warm against her most intimate place, separated only by the thin fabric of her panties. 

Steed stirred in his sleep and his hand gently squeezed her; she nearly bit her lower lip from the pleasant sensation. His fingertips gave a light caress before settling back into stillness. A moan nearly escaped Emma's lips. This must be how he was used to sleeping with Rita. She thrilled at the thought that it might have been meant just for her, but it was probably just force of habit. 

Peter had been a dutiful husband, but afterwards, he always retired to his side of the bed. She wasn't used to sleeping in such close proximity to a man, and certainly wasn't used to having the flower of her womanhood held in such a way. She carefully eased her thighs apart another inch, and to her delight, Steed reaffirmed his grip. This time, she couldn't help giving a contented sigh. 

Emma delicately reached down so as not to disturb Steed, and tugged the blanket up over them against the chill. Then, slowly, she moved her hand down until it covered his. 

-oOo-

When she woke up in the morning, her head was resting on Steed's chest again. The two of them must have shifted sleeping positions during the night; but she was positive she remembered waking to an intense erotic contact. Hadn't she? Perhaps it had only been a dream. Steed stirred beneath her, and she moved away quickly, not wanting to be found clinging to him. 

Steed smiled. "Good morning, Mrs. Peel. How was your trap yesterday?" 

"I was only in it for a little while," she answered breezily. 

"I knew you had been captured," Steed remarked, thinking about the pocket watch he had seen at the winery. 

"And I knew they had you," she smirked, thinking about the bowler. "But I figured you wouldn't stay trapped. You're made from a rare vintage, Steed." 

"The reverse was almost true," he said with a grin. "I imagine you easily escaped from the zoo." 

"I know you're not supposed to tease the animals," Emma confessed. "But there was this water hose... and an old acquaintance." 

Steed lifted an eyebrow. "Our KGB friends from Tokyo were there?" 

"One of them was, the one with the moustache." 

"That figures. The man that tried to kill me may have been The Ladja himself." 

"Oh, Steed! Did you recognize him?" 

Steed shook his head. "I didn't recognize his voice. If he used to work for the Ministry, I never met him." 

"What about his face?" 

"He was wearing a mask with a chessboard on it," Steed answered wryly. 

"The Ladja seems to have no shortage of ego," she commented, sliding out of bed. Steed followed her over to the writing desk, where her clothes were draped on the chair. 

"Did you find out anything on the street last night?" he asked. 

Emma blushed as she remembered her nocturnal excursion in the transparent camisole. Involuntarily, her nipples hardened in Steed's undershirt, and she moved her arms up to hide them. But Steed was only looking at her eyes. 

"The girls say there's a new 'Mr. Big' in town," she announced. "His name's Pierre LaTour." 

Steed's eyes widened. "They call him _La Tour_?" 

"Yes. Does that mean anything?" 

"'The Tower'," Steed nodded. "It's the French word for 'Rook'." 

"The Ladja," she said resolutely. 

"It's a fair bet," he responded. "Where can we find this LaTour?" 

"He runs a nightclub. I dropped in and they're going to let me work tonight, as a trial." 

"Excellent; I'll stop by this evening. At least you'll get one good tip." 

"It's a place called _La Chatte Ronronne_ ," she explained. 

Steed grinned. "The Purring Pussy?" 

Emma turned around to face him. She had donned two small furry ears, which peeked above her auburn hair. 

He smiled broadly. "You get to wear a costume! And how about the purr?" 

She let out a low and sexy trill. Steed's eyes twinkled. 

"I'm afraid I'm fresh out of catnip," he said. "Would you settle for a saucer of milk?" 

-oOo-


	5. La Chatte Ronronne

**Chapter 5**

"Bon soir, m'sieu. My name is Mimi." 

Steed debonairly removed his bowler and smiled at her. "My name is John Steed." 

" _Plaisir_ ," she replied sweetly. The young girl escorted him through the sprawling nightclub to a table close to the manager's office, just as she had been instructed. Steed placed his bowler on his umbrella handle and hung it on the edge of the table. After ordering a brandy, he started to scan his surroundings for suspicious characters. 

The clientele was mostly male and mostly upper-class. Steed was positive he noticed not only several _grands électeurs_ , but a few members of the _sénat_ as well. Champagne was flowing as freely as beer would at an English pub. In addition to the politicians, several obviously wealthy businessmen were ogling the skimpily-dressed waitresses. 

Across the room he could see Mrs. Peel wearing an outfit similar to Mimi's. Along with the pointed ear headband she had donned earlier, she was dressed in a black bra top and miniskirt with matching panties. A furry, semi-rigid tail flowed out behind her, supported by a strap hidden in her waistband. In her navel she wore a small, jeweled ornament shaped like a cat's face, held in place by a dab of adhesive. Even in this ridiculous costume, she looked unbelievably sexy. 

Emma sensed his gaze, turning towards him with a smile. She sauntered over with a tray of drinks, sinuously swinging her hips to cause the tail to bounce jauntily back and forth. Steed pretended not to notice, instead focusing his attention on Mimi, who had bent to retrieve something and was now displaying a breathtaking view of her pert backside. There was one difference from Mrs. Peel's attire—Mimi was wearing a G-string under her miniskirt, and both cheeks were clearly visible from this pose. He spoke without taking his eyes off the provocative display. 

"I must say, I approve of the cat-suits." 

Emma interposed her body to cut off his line of sight. 

Steed smiled. "Easy, Mrs. Peel. You know you're my favorite feminine feline." 

Emma's hands were full with the serving tray, so she playfully whipped him with her tail. 

"Watch out!" he said, barely ducking. "You're lethal with that thing." 

She wagged it menacingly from side to side. "It's all in the hips." 

"Seems like fun and games until someone loses an eye," Steed teased. "Any sign of our mysterious mastermind LaTour? 

"The girls say that he usually shows up around midnight." 

Steed nodded. He had spent all day with Mrs. Peel sight-seeing at Notre Dame and the Hôtel des Invalides. She had brought her sketchbook, and in addition to capturing the lines of the classic architecture, she had even made a study of Steed himself posing against the backdrop of Napolean's tomb. When she had asked why they weren't tracking down the trail of The Ladja, he had answered that whatever was happening in Paris was happening at night. And true enough, if The Ladja were going to make any appearances, it would be here, at _La Chatte Ronronne_ , sometime late in the evening. 

Mrs. Peel offered him a glass from her tray. "Maybe you'll get a kick out of this champagne." 

He grinned as he accepted it and took a delicate sip, raising it to her in toast. 

"I only get a kick out of you, Mrs. Peel." 

"Don't tempt me," she teased with a smile, turning back to her other customers. Halfway across the room, she set down the tray and bent over shamelessly to adjust one of her black spike heels, wondering if Steed would watch with the same rapt attention he had shown Mimi. 

A plainly-dressed man with dark hair entered the nightclub. Emma alertly checked out his eyes, but they were brown. Still, there was something about his features that seemed familiar. She drifted over to one of the waitress stations where Mimi was refilling her tray. 

"Who is that man?" Emma asked pointedly. 

"He is one of Pierre's lackeys, that I told you about last night," Mimi said in a hushed voice. "His name is Vasily." 

Emma remembered that one of the KGB guards in Tokyo had spoken that name. She watched as Vasily vanished through the door that led to the manager's office. Steed had noticed the newcomer as well. Emma strolled back past his table. 

"Mimi says his name is Vasily," she said evenly. 

"A common enough Russian name," Steed commented. "Are you thinking that he could be The Ladja?" 

Emma shook her head. "Wrong eye color. But I'm positive I overheard the KGB men using that name in Tokyo. And now it turns out this Vasily is working for Pierre LaTour." She moved her head closer to Steed's. "There's no doubt in my mind that LaTour is The Ladja," she added forcefully. 

"In that case, maybe we should pay a visit to the manager's office," Steed mused. "Can you find an excuse to slip away?" 

"You realize we're probably walking into a trap?" 

"So far The Ladja's naught-for-two trying to trap us. And you know my old saying—" 

"'Keep our wits about us'," Emma singsonged. 

"Precisely." Steed donned his bowler and walked casually over to the manager's office. With a quick twist of the door handle, he stepped inside. 

Emma went back to the waitress station where Mimi was counting out several large-denomination franc notes. 

"I think I saw a man enter Pierre's office," Emma whispered urgently. 

"That was just Vasily," Mimi explained. 

"No, I mean _after_ him." 

"Perhaps we should call one of the _videurs,_ " Mimi said with concern. 

"I'll just take a look for myself," Emma declared. 

"Be careful," Mimi advised. "Pierre does not like anyone to enter his office without permission." 

"I'll be back before you know it." 

As Emma slipped through the door to the manager's office, Mimi went over to the house phone and started speaking rapidly in French. 

-oOo-

The office was richly appointed with Louis XIV-style furniture. It also had no windows. Emma removed her high-heels to stand barefoot next to Steed. 

"There's no way out," she commented. 

"So it would seem," Steed answered, walking over to the desk to check the drawers. They were locked. 

"So where did Vasily go?" Emma asked. 

"At the risk of sounding melodramatic, there must be a secret passage." 

Emma started pulling volumes on the large bookshelf against the far wall. She braced her shoulder against it and shoved. It wouldn't budge. 

Steed was examining a coat rack near the door. As he tugged down on one of the hooks with the handle of his umbrella, a panel slid open in the wall. There were steps leading downward. The air that swirled up from the opening felt damp. 

"Beat you to it," Steed teased. Emma walked over and peered down into the darkness. 

"Come into my parlor?" she said, arching an eyebrow. "Helpless and unarmed?" 

"Many words come to mind to describe you, Mrs. Peel, but 'helpless' isn't one of them," Steed smiled. "I brought this for you." He reached in his pocket and produced her Beretta with the thigh holster. She strapped it on silently, pulling it high up on her leg so as to hide it as much as possible beneath her miniskirt. The gun's handle was directly in contact with her crotch, and she briefly wondered how men were able to function with such an awkward arrangement down below. Emma nodded once to Steed, resolutely, and started down the stairs on her bare feet. After the first few meters the walls changed to stone, and it became apparent they were descending into the sewer system of Paris. 

When they reached the bottom, Steed held his finger to his lips. "There's someone down here," he said under his breath. They both listened for a moment to the steady drip of water in the distance. 

"Perhaps it's Jean Valjean," Emma smirked. 

The distinct sound of footsteps could be heard echoing through the open space, seeming to head away from them. Taking over the lead, Steed quickly raced along the cement causeways in pursuit of their quarry, with Emma padding carefully along behind him. Within a minute they had Vasily in their sights, and they hung back briefly to avoid being seen. 

Vasily had stepped through a large stone archway into a vaulted room with a smooth, polished floor. The squares of inlaid stone tile alternated black and white, eight deep and eight across, forming a giant chessboard. With an odd stutter-step cadence, he began crossing the floor. When he reached the other side, he vanished through a door next to one of the middle white squares. Emma and Steed watched in amazement from their hiding place behind a column. 

"One of The Ladja's traps?" Steed speculated. 

"The steps are in a pattern," Emma pointed out. "It's two squares in a line, then one square over." 

Steed nodded. "He may be The Rook, but he seems to have a fondness for Knights." He turned to her and smiled. His lips were only inches away from hers. "That's something we have in common." 

It was a hokey line, but Emma smiled back anyway. 

"There's every reason to think it's booby-trapped," she warned. "Step on one wrong square, and..." 

"I'll go first," Steed declared. 

"And what qualifies you to lead the way?" 

"I was the year-two hopscotch champion at Miss Rattersham's School in St. John's." 

Emma wrinkled her mouth. "Isn't Miss Rattersham's a School For Girls?" 

"Some parents keep their bairns in curls too long," Steed grinned. He strolled confidently out from behind the column and took a short hop to land dead in the center of the proper square. Nothing happened. 

"You see?" he smiled. "Perfectly safe, when you follow the pattern." He hopped to the next square, and Emma started crossing behind him, following his exact steps. 

Suddenly, the door on the opposite side opened and Vasily stepped back through to the white square. Too late, Emma and Steed noticed they were both standing on black squares. 

With a knowing laugh, Vasily pressed a lever on the door frame. All of the black squares collapsed downward, and Steed and Emma fell, descending into darkness. 

-oOo-

A hiss of escaping gas was the first thing Steed noticed when he recovered from the six-foot drop. He crawled over to where Mrs. Peel had landed. She seemed to be uninjured, but the gas must have affected her more quickly due to her lighter weight; her head lolled directionlessly on her shoulders. Steed felt his own consciousness start to slip; he groggily slipped his hand between her legs and groped for the handle of the Beretta. 

Steed arched an eyebrow as Emma sighed contentedly and spread her thighs wide apart as his hand made contact. Just then, a door on the opposite side of the chamber opened with a loud clang. A dark-haired man wearing a gas mask entered and pulled a lever on the wall. The squares above Steed's head sprang closed again, and electric lights snapped on to illuminate the room. Steed quickly withdrew his hand from under Mrs. Peel's skirt, not wanting to give away the weapon cached there. He was in no condition for a shootout now, and they might be able to use the gun later. 

The last conscious sensation that Steed had was of his feet being tied together, then his wrists being put in shackles and hoisted above his head by a dangling chain. 

-oOo-

When Emma's eyes were able to focus again, she saw that she was prisoner in some sort of dungeon. Steed was ten feet away from her, and his ankles were tied together, just as hers were. Their hands were suspended by chains from the ceiling. There was barely enough play for her to bend her knees. 

"Steed," she called weakly. He responded by slowly turning his head in her direction. 

"Yes, Mrs. Peel?" 

"Are we keeping our wits about us?" 

"Certainly," he answered. "I should be regaining mine any moment now." 

The door to the cell opened, and the KGB man with the black moustache entered. He went over to Steed and perfunctorily patted him down for weapons, then turned to Emma. At first it looked as if he dismissed her scanty attire as offering no hiding place; but then, as if from spite for his earlier humiliation, he abruptly lifted her miniskirt. 

Emma thrashed wildly as he scrabbled at the holster between her legs. With a sinister smile, he swung his elbow into her lower abdomen. Emma winced in pain as Steed angrily rattled his chains nearby. She tried to squeeze her thighs together, but the man with the black moustache pried them apart and ripped the Beretta free. 

Instead of being angry, Emma merely smiled sweetly. She squatted down as far as the chains holding her would allow and started swiveling and gyrating her hips. The KGB man must have thought it part of some weird ritual—to entice him sexually, perhaps? But Steed remembered her skill from earlier that evening, and watched knowingly. 

Emma completed her motion by jumping upward and spinning. Her flexible, whip-like tail flew with perfect aim into the man's face and made snapping contact. This had the desired effect: he let out a clipped cry and briefly lowered his head to his hands, just enough to be in her target range. Her ankles still tied together, Emma hung from the chain holding her wrists and unleashed a fierce kick with both feet. She made perfect contact with the side of the guard's head and sent him sprawling, the Beretta dropping from his grasp only a few inches away. 

Steed grinned as Emma wiggled her rear in a victory dance, her tail swinging ominously from side to side. 

"It's all in the hips," she gloated. 

"Just fun and games until someone loses... an eye?" Steed offered. The semi-conscious man on the floor rolled around in a daze. 

Emma wedged the handle of the Beretta between her tied feet and swung lightly from her chain. 

"Catch," she ordered. She flipped the gun upward in the direction of Steed's bound wrists. He caught it by the muzzle and firmly worked the grip into his right hand. 

"Is there any chance you can shoot the chains holding you?" she asked. 

"Not really enough play," he commented. "And if I were to press the muzzle directly against the links, the shrapnel would probably do me grievous bodily harm. No; I think it's best if I shoot yours." 

"Shoot mine?" Emma's eyes went wide with alarm. She looked uncertainly at the narrow chains confining her from above. "You wouldn't do anything to hurt me, would you Steed?" 

"Of course not, Mrs. Peel," he answered cheerfully. A silence fell between them as he concentrated on his aim. "You do have insurance?" he added. 

"Bet you're wishing now that it wasn't that anemic twenty-five caliber," she teased quietly. 

"Don't move, Mrs. Peel." 

"I wouldn't think of it," she said, pulling the chain taut with her weight to give Steed a more stable target. 

"Not many people gain the skill to aim a gun without using their eyes to sight along its length," Steed said casually. "But I was undercover in a circus once..." 

The pistol made a loud boom, sure to bring someone running. But the chains holding Emma to the ceiling had been severed. She landed gracefully in a crouch, like the cat she was dressed as, and scurried over to the incapacitated guard. Emma fished around through the groaning KGB man's pockets until she retrieved the key, making sure her elbow made contact with some of _his_ sensitive spots. She then unlocked her wrists, untied her ankles, and went over to remove the shackles from Steed. 

Emma stood only inches away and looked deep into Steed's eyes as she reached up for the chains above his head. 

"You _are_ good at pistol-shooting," she complimented. "You missed out on that Modern Pentathlon in Tokyo. You could have had a medal." 

He smiled at her charmingly. His face was almost in contact with hers. "I didn't exactly come away from Tokyo empty-handed." 

She didn't do it often, but Emma actually blushed. She lightly massaged Steed's shoulders as he bent down to untie his ankles. 

"We need to hurry," she advised. "That shot probably echoed all the way back to _La Chatte Ronronne._ " 

"Do you hear that noise?" Steed asked. 

Emma furrowed her brow in concentration. "Some sort of machinery?" 

"It's a printing press," Steed concluded. 

"It could just be churning out the latest copy of _The Ladja Quarterly_ ," she remarked. 

"Let's investigate." He gave her a boyish grin, and collected his bowler and umbrella from a shelf nearby. 

-oOo-

The room was filled with a medium-sized industrial printing press. Nearby, steel drums full of red, green, and blue inks fed it through transparent plastic hoses. Large sheets of paper were feeding through it at an orderly pace. Steed switched off the press with the tip of his umbrella. There was a final whoosh as the last sheaf exited the unit. 

"He's either very clever, or very mad—or a little bit of each," Steed commented. He stared at the engraved plates mounted on the cylinder. 

"Angels and The Grim Reaper," he announced. 

Emma arched an eyebrow. "Danse Macabre?" 

Steed nodded. "It's a Swiss 1000-franc banknote." He examined the plates closely. They were exact duplicates of Gauchat's design—or maybe the originals. 

"These plates are only available at De La Rue in London," he added absently. 

"The printers?" Emma asked. 

"They print the currency for most European countries," Steed explained. "And, of course, they're responsible for the paragon of all banknotes, produced for the most stable and valued monetary system in the world—the Swiss franc." 

"And The Ladja has his own personal De La Rue going here," Emma agreed. She examined the final sheet of banknotes from the outgoing bin. "How does he distribute them?" 

Steed was reading the labels on some nearby crates. "Looks like he ships the stuff to Lyon," he said. "From there, it must be taken across the border into Geneva. Funneled into KGB bank accounts, no doubt. The Ladja can literally write his own check wherever he goes. No wonder he was able to underwrite the assassination plot in Tokyo." 

"What do we do?" 

Steed pulled out a handkerchief and worked the latches that held down the plate. "The first thing is to get these engravings back to London. Dry up The Ladja's source of funding. Do you think you can find your way back to _La Chatte?_ " 

Emma crossed her arms. "I'm not leaving you. We're going to face this villain once and for all, side by side." 

-oOo-

Vasily entered the office of Pyotr Pehlovich. The Ladja was judging a set of banknotes with a jeweler's loupe. Vasily waited until his superior removed the eyepiece. 

"We have captured Steed and your wife," he announced. 

The Ladja smiled. "Excellent!" He reached into a desk drawer and slipped his mask on over his face. 

"Aren't you going to reveal yourself to your woman?" 

"Not right away," Pehlovich said. "She may be upset when I kill Steed. I'll make myself known later, once she's had time to digest everything." 

A sudden silence fell across the room. Vasily's eyes lit up in alarm. 

"The press has stopped." 

"Steed," The Ladja spat angrily. He reached into the desk once more and removed a nine-millimeter Mauser, checking to see that it was fully loaded. "Follow me," he ordered his henchman. 

Vasily pounded down the corridor after Pehlovich towards the print room. 

-oOo-

The sound of footsteps in the corridor spurred Emma into action. She ran for the door as Steed tucked away the plates in his pocket and followed two steps behind. The door flew open before she could reach it, and the cold steel muzzle of a semi-automatic weapon was aimed at her midsection. 

Emma had come face to face with the man in the chessboard mask. 

-oOo-


	6. Rook, Knight, and Queen's Pawn

**Chapter 6**

Pyotr Pehlovich frowned behind his mask. He carefully looked his wife over from head to toe—the black bra top, the jeweled decoration in her navel, the miniskirt and panties. She was dressed like a _whore_. This was what came of hanging around with this Steed fellow. His reaction was immediate. He aimed his gun at Steed and squeezed the trigger. 

"No!" Emma cried, her bare foot lashing out like a viper's strike to contact her husband's wrist. The Ladja's aim was spoiled and his shot went wide. He stared for a moment at his throbbing hand. He had never thought his Emma capable of such violence. 

Emma lunged at him, reaching up to rip his mask off. Pyotr raised his hands in defense, allowing her to grab both his wrists. She twisted the one that held the Mauser; it fell to the floor and skittered away. 

Vasily scooped up the free weapon and emptied half of the clip in Steed's direction. But Steed had already dived for cover behind the drums of ink; the henchman's bullets merely pierced one of the containers that was stacked on top of the others. Thick fingers of red liquid shot out from the holes. 

Emma still had hold of both of The Ladja's wrists, and recognizing this as an advantageous grappling position when fighting a man, she looked down and was pleased to see he was standing with his feet slightly apart. With a grunt of exertion, she thrust her knee upward, ramming it firmly into The Ladja's unprotected groin. She was amazed at his poor hand-to-hand fighting skills—it was almost as if he was _surprised_ by her attack. He gave a startled cry as his body went rigid with the contact, then slumped helplessly as the paralyzing effects spread through his lower abdomen. 

Her fingertips gained purchase along the edge of the mask, and with a steady pull, Emma ripped it free. At the same instant, Vasily grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms into immobility. The Ladja turned away before she had a chance to see his face; without speaking a word, he staggered for the door. Steed tapped his umbrella against the side of the printing press, calling for attention. 

"Here's that merlot you ordered." Steed smiled as he shoved the leaking drum from the top of the stack. It went careening across the room, a crimson-spewing juggernaut, spraying its contents over Pehlovich. For a brief moment, Emma thought she could see his face, drenched in red. Then he had turned away again. 

Vasily spun Emma around and punched her in the stomach, then headed for the door. As she doubled over trying to regain her breath, her eyes fastened upon the bottom of her leather holster, just dipping below the hem of her miniskirt. She plunged her hand between her legs and drew the Beretta, feeling its muzzle slide comfortingly across the heart of her womanhood as she pulled it free. 

She raised the gun and took dead aim at the back of her husband's head. 

"Mrs. Peel—no!" Steed called as he dived for her. He caught her wrist in time, causing the shot to go wide into another drum of red ink, ironically spilling down over The Ladja as he made his getaway with Vasily. Emma turned, her face contorted with anger. 

"I had him, Steed! What would possess you to do such a thing?" Her eyes were on fire with battle-lust. Steed wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and gently took the Beretta from her hand. 

"Killing men isn't the help I need from you," he said soothingly. "Our job is to stop The Ladja, and capture him if possible—not to become an animal like him. We fix things when they go wrong. We're correctors, not killers." 

Emma still held the chessboard mask in her other hand; for a moment she pondered the streak of red ink that had been splashed across the front. Then she nodded acceptance of Steed's judgment, sagging back into his arms. He sniffed the fragrance of her hair as she turned and slipped her arms around his neck. 

"I'm sorry," she said. "That's my first encounter with The Ladja. He just seemed to radiate such an aura of pure... _evil._ Even without seeing his face, I'm sure I'd recognize him immediately if I ever met him in person. I can only imagine what his voice must sound like." 

"He _was_ a bit laconic tonight," Steed said. "Last time we met, he was just full of witticisms." 

"Are you sure he isn't mute?" 

"You should have heard him yesterday, at the winery," Steed answered. "Couldn't shut him up." 

"What do we do now?" Emma asked. 

"I need to get on the phone to London right away." 

"What for?" 

Steed grinned broadly. "I'm hoping the Port Authorities can catch The Ladja red-handed." 

-oOo-

It was early evening on the middle tier of the Eiffel Tower. The city of Paris was spread out below, its lights blazing with an intensity to rival the stars that were just starting to become visible overhead. John Steed gazed across the table at Emma Peel. She was dressed in a low-cut sheath dress of darkest black, and her rich auburn hair was pulled up to reveal her delicate earlobes, which had always been a source of temptation for him. One day he would have to slip quietly up behind her and just partake of a nibble... 

They had spent all day together sight-seeing again, this time wandering the Champs d'Elysée. Emma had added the Arc de Triomphe to her sketchbook. He was pleased that this nasty business with The Ladja hadn't spoiled her enjoyment of the wonder that was Paris. He lifted his wineglass to her in toast. 

"The Swiss franc plates are on their way back to De La Rue in London," Steed said. "There was a substantial reward, and I took the liberty of depositing half of it in your account." 

She smiled and touched the brim of her glass to his. "And what are you going to do with your half?" 

"You're eating it," he said wryly, gesturing at the meal. "And opening it," he added, producing a smartly-wrapped parcel from beneath the table. 

Her eyes lit up. "For me?" 

Steed pretended to read the tag. "Unless there's another Emma Peel." He handed it across the table to her. 

Like an excited child on Christmas morn, Emma tore into the paper. As she opened the box, her hands came in contact with something soft and luxurious. She pulled it out and rubbed it against her cheek. It was a tasteful fur stole, lustrous, just the fashion in Paris. She stood and allowed Steed to drape it over her shoulders. His hands glided smoothly over her breasts as he wrapped it around, enveloping her in his arms. 

"Steed!" She was delighted. "It's too much!" 

"We are on holiday," he said with his lips close to her ear. "It should help keep you warm, even during the coldest of times." 

Emma pulled him close and tenderly kissed his cheek. 

-oOo-

From a distance, a dark-haired man in a beret was watching the scene dispassionately. Next to him was a poor injured man, apparently a burn victim, wrapped head to toe in gauze. Yet underneath the bandages, his red skin was not the product of any excessive heat. 

"It looks as if your wife has become very friendly with this British agent," Vasily commented. 

Pyotr Pehlovich's voice was bitter. 

"It may take years," he said. "But Emma will be mine again. I swear it." 

"Your biggest worry now is what Gogol will say," Vasily chided. 

"I don't care what Gogol says," The Ladja replied evenly. "John Steed must die." 

-oOo-

Marina was reclining on the couch reading _Little Women_. Her English skills weren't perfect, but she understood enough of the book that a tear was starting to well up in her eye. She heard a low scrabbling noise at the front door. A cat? Then she realized that it was someone trying to pick the lock. 

For a moment, panic set in; then she remembered the weapon Steed had left her. She rooted through the drawer and pulled out the revolver, retreating to the kitchen to be out of the line of sight. She nervously checked to make sure that the gun chambers contained bullets. In spite of her bold face to Steed, she had never seen a weapon close-up before, let alone attempted to use one. 

Marina's hands were still shaking as she heard two men step inside. She ventured a peek around the kitchen arch, staying low to the ground. 

She recognized one of the men immediately. He was the KGB man, Vasily, that had met with The Ladja that fateful night at Ozero Krugloye. The other one, with the moustache, looked familiar; he had probably been a guard for her Olympic team in Tokyo. 

Vasily was busy connecting wires from a box that he had set next to the front door. He carefully flipped a switch on the side. 

"The device is now armed," he advised. "Once we close this door, the next person to open it will be blown to bits." 

"And that will be the end of John Steed," the other man announced smugly. 

"He has seen Paris," Vasily said with a wry grin. "Now he can die." The door shut with a finality that sent a shiver down Marina's spine. 

What should she do? She could try shooting the bomb, but without knowing its power, she might wind up blowing herself to bits as well. It suddenly occurred to her that Steed might be home at any minute; she had to prevent the door from opening. Marina carefully took the copy of _Little Women_ she had been reading, flipped it halfway open, and wedged the front cover firmly beneath the door. 

Still wandering in circles trying to decide what to do next, Marina's eyes fell upon a black address book next to the phone. The first number in the book had been scratched out and replaced with a number in Wales. She dialed it blindly and waited until it was answered at the other end. 

"Hello?" the voice said. 

"My name is Marina Irinova, and I'm staying at the apartment of a man called John Steed," she began. "Your number was in his book. Do you know him?" 

"Perhaps," the guarded voice answered. "What seems to be the problem?" 

"Someone has planted a bomb in his apartment. I was here and saw the whole thing, from hiding. I wedged the door so it couldn't accidentally be opened." 

"That was smart thinking, Marina," Rita Fox said. "I'll call some friends at the Ministry in Whitehall. They'll send someone over." 

"How will they get in?" 

"There's a window in his bedroom. Do you know where that is?" 

"It's where I've been sleeping," Marina answered innocently. 

"Er—yes," Rita stumbled. "Well, you can let them in through there." 

-oOo-

The chairs in the office of Sir Gerald Tarrant were all richly upholstered in leather, and the desk was a mammoth construction of pure mahogany. Charles, the Head of Operations, was sitting in one of these chairs, looking across the vast expanse of varnished wood at his superior. 

"This Pehlovich affair seems to have gotten out of control," Charles observed candidly. Sir Gerald said nothing at first; he concentrated on filling his pipe and getting a good fire going before he answered. 

"The situation isn't unsalvageable," Tarrant said reasonably, "as long as The Ladja remains in the favor of Gogol." 

Charles arched an eyebrow. "Are you saying that if Pehlovich obtains a large enough secret in trade, you would let him return to us?" 

Sir Gerald blew a smoke ring and nodded. "Of course," he answered smoothly. "We merely tell the world he's been found in the Amazon. An amazing tale of jungle survival." 

Charles continued uncertainly. "And what about Steed and Mrs. Peel?" 

"Our concern is the security of England, not the personal entanglements of its citizens," Sir Gerald responded. "If Pehlovich agrees to return to be a double agent for our side, we happily let him reunite with his wife." His features softened a bit. "At any rate, thanks to Steed, that could now take years. He's hung two significant failures on Pehlovich: the assassination in Tokyo and the counterfeit operation in Paris. It may take some time before the KGB entrusts him with any big secrets. He'll be effectively demoted." 

Charles ventured a forceful reply. "It's hard to blame Steed for being Steed. He sees an enemy like The Ladja, he wants to defeat him." 

Tarrant smiled warmly. "Yes. It is a difficult game." 

"A game... with Rook, Knight, and Queen's Pawn," Charles offered. "So what do we do now?" 

"We wait," Tarrant answered casually. "Time will make things clear. One day, Pyotr Pehlovich may come to us bearing a gift we can't refuse. We then allow him to resume his life as Peter Peel." He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. 

"In the meantime, we continue to use his wife—through Steed. As far as I'm concerned, it's a win-win situation," he added simply. 

-oOo-

The lighting inside the plane was soft and muted on the night flight back to London. Steed carefully folded the copy of _L'Équipe_ he had been reading and turned off the overhead lamp. He closed his eyes and drank in the light fragrance that wafted to him over the rush of recirculated air. 

Mrs. Peel was dozing in the seat next to him. It would be strange sleeping alone back in London, he thought. He had become quite used to sleeping with Mrs. Peel. Even though their relationship wasn't physical, he knew he would miss her warm body pressed against his on the bed, steam heat or no. 

Steed moved his head over next to Emma's. In spite of her apparent sound sleep, some instinct caused her to rest her head on his shoulder and slip her arm across his chest, pulling him close to her, as if she never wanted to let go. 

-oOo-


End file.
